Talking to the Dead

by Bonnie Grove

  And she did, shouldering her way into the house before I could step aside for her. She waved two hands at me, her vinyl white purse swinging dangerously close to my face. “I’ve tried calling, I’ve tried leaving messages.” She glared at me, one eye bulging larger than the other. “Nothing. So I decided to drop in unannounced. Imagine my surprise at seeing a For Sale sign on your front lawn. It’s rude, you know—”

  She caught sight of Jack, who’d sauntered in from the kitchen, a questioning look on his face.

  “Well, hello there,” Maggie purred, extending her hand to him so that he could not shake it, but kiss it. Which he did, adding a clipped bow. Maggie turned to me, eyebrows waggling. “My goodness, he’s lovely. Wherever did you find him?”

  “Maggie, meet Jack. Pastor Jack. He’s helping me with some house repairs.”

  Jack held up a plumber’s wrench as if offering proof. “A pleasure to meet you, Maggie.”

  She clapped her hands twice. “A man of the cloth. How exciting.” She stomped a foot, commanding our full attention. “Naturally I want to hear all about this love affair from both of you, but first—”

  I interrupted, my face burning. I couldn’t bear to look at Jack. “It’s not a love aff—”

  Maggie held up her hand. “But first! There is a For Sale sign on your lawn, and I want to know what’s going on.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me down the hall into the den. She looked over her shoulder at Jack. “I need a tête-à-tête with our mutual friend. You carry on doing what you were doing.” She marched me into the den and closed the door behind her. “Goodness, Kate, he’s what the young people call a hunk.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve misunderstood—”

  “I understand perfectly, dear. And I approve. It’s one thing for a withered up old lady like me to go on being single. I can pull off eccentric.” She motioned for me to take a seat in the desk chair. “You’re too young for eccentric. You need a man in your life, and that Jack Slater fellow is just the sort to paint your wagon.”

  I sat and gaped bug-eyed at her, but I couldn’t help but smile a little. “There’s so much wrong with that sentence, I don’t even know where to begin.”

  Maggie dragged a second chair beside me and sat. “Wrong? You’re a fine one to talk about wrong. You’ve got your house for sale, a hunk in your kitchen adjusting your taps, and all without saying a word to me.”

  “I know I should have called you after I was released from the assessment center. I’ve been meaning to, it’s just things have been busy …” I trailed off. My excuses were lame. I hadn’t called Maggie, or anyone else for that matter, because I didn’t want anyone trying to talk me out of moving to the city, of getting on with my life. Or maybe because I just didn’t want to talk, period.

  She sighed in an exaggerated way. “Good intentions pave the road to—well, never mind.” She looked up at the ceiling, beseeching the heavens. “Bygones and all that stuff. Tell me about that For Sale sign.”

  “I’m moving to the city.”

  To my surprise Maggie jumped up and applauded. “Well done, Kate.” She clasped her hands over her breast. “Oh, I remember this so well.”

  Remembered? “What do you mean?”

  She sat again. “After Jeremy left, I sulked and stalled for a long time, then one day I knew it was time to move on. It was all of a sudden, all at once. One day I didn’t know what to do, the next I did.” She patted my leg. “Was it like that for you? All at once?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I guess it was.” Why had I avoided Maggie? She was a breath of fresh air, always encouraging me. Guilt poked at me. I’d treated her badly, unfairly. She’d been nothing but a true friend to me.

  She winked. “Except it took me three years to come to that sensible conclusion, and it only took you a few months.” She nodded, approving the timeline. “Now let’s dish about that Handsome Harry in your kitchen.” Maggie let out a long, low whistle. “My, my.”

  “Oh, Maggie …”

  She put a finger on her chin. “I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.”

  “Oy. He’s just a friend, Maggie. I met him at the community center, and he’s been helping me out—”

  “Uh-huh. Big guy like that, you’d have to bend your head back like this.” She tilted her head, showing me her throat. “Don’t you think?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Mag—”

  “How tall are you?” She stood and waved for me to do the same.

  “Seriously, cut it out—”

  “He looks strong, too.” She ran a hand up her arm from elbow to shoulder.

  “You’ve lost your mind.” I was laughing now.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Have I? I don’t think so. I saw the look on his face when he looked at you.”

  “What look?” The words were out of my mouth before I could think. Like some Pavlovian dog, my interest piqued at the hint of a man’s attentions.

  Maggie’s face split into a wider grin. “Ah, I thought you were just friends?” She nudged me with her elbow.

  I grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. “We are. And this conversation is getting ridiculous.” I shoved her lightly, moving her out of the den.

  “Fine, fine,” she said, clearly delighted. “I’m your friend too, and I’m officially volunteering to help you with the fix-ups.” She turned and gave me a broad wink. “Unless you’d rather I leave you alone with Mr. Friend.”

  I was smiling wide. Maggie’s perky tenacity, her stubborn optimism touched a chord in me. “I’d love it if you stayed. Thank you for offering.”

  Her eyes sparkled with impish delight. “Happy to. I’ll start in the upstairs bathroom.” She walked off down the hall. “I’m simply a whiz with bathroom fixtures. Where would I find a clean rag?”

  “Under the sink,” I called after her. I turned back into the room. Across from me was a full-length mirror. I walked toward myself carefully, taking full account of my reflection. My face was pale, making my brown eyes look large. I ran a hand over my loose cotton shirt and track pants. I inched close to the mirror until my nose nearly touched the glass. I closed my eyes and bent my head back. But only for a moment. I opened my eyes, saw the longing reflected in the image before me. I shivered.

  “Stop it,” I told myself. You’re a grown woman, not a hormonal teenager. I turned and hurried from the room.

  45

  I slumped in the corner of the gym, exhausted. My life had been a mad dash since I’d been released from the psychiatric assessment center more than two weeks before. Keeping up my appointments with Dr. Alexander, group therapy, my probation officer, and logging in hours of community service had me burning up the asphalt of the highway between Greenfield and the city.

  When I was home, I cleaned, preparing the final touches on the house before Rose opened it for showings in just two days. And I’d had no time to look for a place to live in the city.

  I leaned against the gym wall and closed my eyes. The sounds of basketball filled my ears. There were more teenagers than usual; the numbers had been steadily increasing since Big Tim’s death. The news of his murder seemed to act as a magnet, drawing in youth from the streets. The banner that bore his image still hung in the gym. I’d noticed several new messages had been added.

  “Hey! Take off, loser.” Sekeena’s distressed voice rose above the din of bouncing balls. I opened my eyes. Sekeena stood on the far side of the gym, her arms wrapped around her torso. She was wearing a baggy tracksuit, the hood pulled up over her head.

  Creeper, a popular boy with an unfortunate nickname, stood near her, tossing a basketball up in the air. I had watched him and Sekeena try to outdo each other on the court the first time I’d visited the gym. He was tall and lean, and he and Sekeena were always in each other’s face. Jack had told me that the boy’s re
al name was Terrance, but he earned his nickname in junior high when a growth spurt shot him to six feet tall and he compensated by slouching, his spine curving into a near-perfect C.

  Sekeena threw Creeper a violent look and skulked away from him, toward me. She threw herself down on the floor beside me. She used her sleeve to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

  “Sekeena, what happened?”

  She stuck her chin out, putting on her tough-girl act. “Nuthin.”

  I turned and watched the basketball game, pretending interest. “Oh, good. For a second there I thought your crying meant there was something wrong. Thanks for clearing that up.”

  She gave a half laugh, half sob, and leaned on my shoulder. I put one arm around her and patted the pocket of my pants, looking for a tissue. When would I learn to stuff them with tissue like my mother always had? No matter the season or the crisis, if you needed a tissue, my mother could produce a variety to choose from. I came up empty-handed.

  Sekeena sat up, pushing the tears off her face with her palms. “I’m pregnant.”

  I tried not to look shocked. She was a tomboy, an in-your-face, play-hard girl who never gave a guy an inch. At least on the basketball court. Obviously she’d been giving one guy plenty of room. Or maybe not.

  “Creeper?” I asked, taking an educated guess.

  She didn’t seem to think it was a dumb question. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Yep.”

  “Was it … your choice?” The world was a different place than the one I had spent my teens in just a decade ago. And the city was far removed from the sleepy town I’d grown up in. Working with teenagers had taught me I couldn’t take even the simplest thing for granted.

  She tossed her head back. “Creeper doesn’t force girls.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He doesn’t have to.”

  I looked over to the game. Creeper took control of the ball and dribbled it in for an easy layup. “Does he know?”

  She fiddled with the drawstring of her track pants. “No,” she said in a flat, sort of disgusted way that teenagers speak when they don’t want to talk. The she threw me a startled look. “Don’t tell him, either.”

  “If that’s what you want.” I stood and offered a hand to hoist her up off the floor. “Let’s go talk in Jack’s office.”

  She stood, but pulled away. “Nothing to talk about,” she mumbled. “And I have to go look for a place to live.”

  “Your parents kicked you out?” I pictured an overtaxed mother, young children tugging at her leg, an unemployed father clad in a white undershirt, sitting at the kitchen table waving a furious fist in the air and hollering, Get outta here!

  Sekeena’s lip curled in a sneer. “No, they didn’t throw me out. At least not yet.” She crossed her arms, head bent so far down she looked like a rag doll. “My mom said to just get an abortion.” She snapped her fingers.

  I felt a sharp pain, like someone pinched my breastbone. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

  “Quick fix. My mom’s style, not mine.” She pointed to her flat abdomen. “And don’t bother her about it, she’s busy with her own problems.”

  She took two tiny steps backward. “Anyway, I’m going to split, see where I can hole up until I decide what to do about …” She shrugged.

  I reached out a hand. “Did Jack have some suggestions for where you can live?”

  She chewed her lip. “I haven’t told Jack. Telling him is worse than telling my parents, ya know?”

  Some perverse part of me felt proud that Sekeena had confided in me before Jack, as if it somehow justified my being there with those teenagers. But I also knew that Jack wouldn’t react as Sekeena suspected. “He’ll understand. And he’ll be able to help, too.” He’d done nothing but help me from the day I met him; I knew he would bend over backward to help Sekeena.

  She tucked her chin to her chest. “He’s such a straight shooter. He’ll be disappointed in me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

  Creeper had played a part in the problem as well and could shoulder some of the blame, I thought. But I held my tongue, no use adding fuel to the fire. “Would you like me to talk to Jack for you?”

  She was silent for so long I wasn’t sure she’d heard me. Then a quiet peep, “Yeah. Thanks.”

  She turned, but I stopped her with a touch. “Are you certain you need to leave home right now? I mean, do you have to?”

  She frowned. “My mom is on my case to get an abortion. My dad yells at her to shut up, then yells at me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yesterday my mom told me, basically, that I have to get an abortion or move out. She doesn’t want the burden. Like she would do all the work?” She snorted. “She acts like I don’t have a brain.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don’t know what to do. I just need to get out of there so I can think straight.” She jogged away a few steps, turned and waved, the conversation over. She headed for the exit.

  I watched her go, wondering what choice she would make. And how could I help her to make it? She had no idea I’d had an abortion, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to share that information with the kids who gathered. What could I do to help her?

  I checked my watch. Three fifteen. I was due for my appointment with Dr. Alexander.

  I drove, deep in thought about Sekeena. She was so young, too young to be a mother. Too young to have to make such huge decisions about life and death. I idled at a stop sign and looked around. Where was I?

  I had driven blindly, without thinking, for at least fifteen minutes and found myself in a neighborhood I’d never seen before. Tree-shaded boulevards were trimmed with winding walkways. Rows of large, Victorian-era houses lined the street. It was reminiscent of a 1950s TV show, where the world seemed honest and clean.

  I inched the car forward, drinking in the sites of the pastel-colored houses, greener-than-green lawns with giant oak trees shading oversized lots. At the end of the street, I noticed a corner house with a sign out front that said For Sale by Owner. I slowed my car.

  I stopped in front of the lot. Painted in buttery yellow with white trim, the two-story house seemed to smile and bend and bow. I glanced at the time. I was late for my appointment with Dr. Alexander. And I was on probation, required to keep all appointments with him. But I turned the engine off and climbed out of the car. I pulled out my phone and called Dr. Alexander’s office. “Sorry, but I’ll be late for my appointment,” I told his receptionist. We rescheduled for the next day.

  I walked up the curved sidewalk just as a woman, whom I would have pegged at about sixty, maybe sixty-five, came out onto the veranda. She waved, as if she’d been expecting me.

  I returned the wave. “I noticed the For Sale sign.”

  She stuck her hand out. “I’m Georgia.” She pushed a strand of salt-and-pepper hair back up into the twist on her head. “Are you looking to buy a house?”

  “I suppose I am,” I said.

  “Come in, then.”

  It was one of those hold-your-breath moments, walking into the house. Like entering a cool breeze, a calm river, a soothing sunrise. The small rooms of a traditional Victorian had been pushed aside and opened up so that the broad foyer flowed into what could correctly be called a great room. The rounded archways, crown molding, and restored ancient flooring worked together to provide a sense of stepping back to a gentler time. Across the room a large-scale fireplace warmed the room. The walls had been painted a soft dove gray, trimmed in the same crisp white as the veranda. It was a room that made you say “Oh.” And nothing more.

  When we walked into the kitchen, I was temporarily dazed by the size of it. Georgia seemed chagrined. “Harry always said the kitchen is the heartbeat of the home. We wanted it nice in here.”

  Nice was an understatement. Four chefs could work here witho
ut interfering with each other. Windows ran horizontally across one full wall, giving a full—nearly panoramic—view of the backyard. I peered out, half expecting to see children playing. Instead there was only green grass and fruit trees. And a boxwood hedge that seemed to act as a barrier or fence. “What’s beyond the hedge?”

  Georgia didn’t even look out the window. “The garden. Well, mostly weeds now, I admit. I haven’t had time for babying tomatoes since Harry turned sick.”

  I turned to her, feeling a prick of guilt. “I’m sorry. Is he better?”

  She smiled. “Better like only God could make him. He died five months ago, just after we finished the renovation on this place.” She let out a laugh. “But, bear in mind, the renovations have lasted nearly twenty-five years.” Her eyes drifted out to the backyard. “We raised our children here, five of them, and over the years, we tinkered—fixing a room up here, wallpapering there. Harry called it his burden of love.”

  Her eyes sparkled bright, perhaps from tears. I felt a lump grow in my chest. Like a fist. “I’m sorry.”

  Georgia jerked, as if suddenly waking. “No, don’t be. I’m going to live with my middle daughter and her children. Three sweet babies for me to hold and spoil.” She ran a hand along the countertop. “It’s time.”

  Upstairs were five bedrooms, each one sunnier than the last, and four bathrooms. After the tour we sat on the back porch and sipped the iced tea Georgia had made. The silence between us stretched out like a homecoming. I was completely at ease with this place, this woman—a complete stranger. I caught her staring at me. “I’m sorry. I’m just amazed. You look—”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “You’re going to think I’m trying to sell you a bill of goods, but you look just as if you were home.” She held up her glass to the house. “This place suits you.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Iced tea spilled from her glass as she nearly lost her grip on it. “Oh, Kate, I didn’t mean—”